A tram passed along in front of this cafe, and this we boarded.  It took about half an hour getting down to Havre from Bleville where the Camps were, but it was worth it.

Tortoni’s Cafe, a place that we looked upon as the last link with civilization:  Tortoni’s, with its blaze of light, looking-glass and gold paint—­its popping corks and hurrying waiters—­made a deep and pleasant indent on one’s mind, for “to-morrow” meant “the Front” for most of those who sat there.

As we sat in the midst of that kaleidoscopic picture, formed of French, Belgian and English uniforms, intermingled with the varied and gaudy robes of the local nymphs; as we mused in the midst of dense clouds of tobacco smoke, we could not help reflecting that this might be the last time we should look on such scenes of revelry, and came to the conclusion that the only thing to do was to make the most of it while we had the chance.  And, by Gad, we did....

A little after midnight I parted from my companion and started off to get back to that Base Camp of mine.

Standing in the main square of the town, I realized a few points which tended to take the edge off the success of the evening: 

No. 1.—­It was too late to get a tram.

No. 2.—­All the taxis had disappeared.

No. 3.—­It was pouring with rain.

No. 4.—­I had three miles to go.

I started off to walk it—­but had I known what that walk was going to be, I would have buttoned myself round a lamp-post and stayed where I was.

I made that fatal mistake of thinking that I knew the way.

Leaning at an angle of forty-five degrees against the driving rain, I staggered along the tram lines past the Casino, and feeling convinced that the tram lines must be correct, determined to follow them.

After about half an hour’s walk, mostly uphill, I became rather suspicious as to the road being quite right.

Seeing a sentry-box outside a palatial edifice on the right, I tacked across the road and looked for the sentry.

A lurid thing in gendarmes advanced upon me, and I let off one of my curtailed French sentences at him: 

“Pour Bleville, Monsieur?”

I can’t give his answer in French, but being interpreted I think it meant that I was completely on the wrong road, and that he wasn’t certain as to how I could ever get back on it without returning to Havre and starting again.

He produced an envelope, made an unintelligible sketch on the back of it, and started me off again down the way I had come.

I realized what my mistake had been.  There was evidently a branch tram line, which I had followed, and this I thought could only have branched off near the Casino, so back I went to the Casino and started again.

I was right about the branch line, and started merrily off again, taking as I thought the main line to Bleville.